


Extreme Measures

by Fantasticly_Anonymous



Series: Falling And Failing Verse; Ridiculousness, Seriousness, and Several Things Imbetween [2]
Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Alien Legal Jargon- but not to excess, Aliens, At least he has some awesome friends!, BAMF Leonard "Bones" McCoy, BAMF Spock, Bickering, Gen, Hijinx, Hurt/Comfort, Medical Emergency, Medical Trauma, Poor James T. Kirk, Strawberries, Texas, Whump, funny moments, peace summit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-02
Updated: 2017-04-02
Packaged: 2018-10-02 15:46:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10221773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fantasticly_Anonymous/pseuds/Fantasticly_Anonymous
Summary: Ever wondered what a diplomatic banquet looks like when you add a Vulcan science officer, a cantankerous country doctor, and a hot headed captain? Look no further! Suspense, drama, and unpaid medical bills collide to make for one chillingly good time! Well... at least one of those things is in here... Rated T for some Language and violence and maybe a tiny bit of blood.Definitely a tiny bit of blood.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This story is a one shot which stands alone just fine, but is also a bit of side cannon for another Star Trek story I've written, by the title of 'Falling and Failing'. It could even work as a quasi third chapter, but I didn't feel it was related enough to actually post and present it as such. False advertising can get a person into trouble after all!  
> If you're of a mind, you are very welcome to hop on over and give that little bit of fiction a whirl before, or after this one!  
> Without further ado; I hope you enjoy the story!

Another day, another diplomatic function the captain was expected to attend.  
Everybody knows that 'expected', in that context, actually means 'forced by Star Fleet command'.  
Well… if not _everybody_ , then at least James T. Kirk... and everybody unfortunate enough to come within 'ear bending range' the day of any such function. Unfortunately for one high ranking Star Fleet doctor, his was the only ear Kirk had been interested in bending all day.

"Really bones? In Texas? They need me to represent Starfleet at some intergalactic barbecue in NowheresvilleTexas? Why Texas?! And why **me**?!"

"Not **you** ya whiny-" Dr. McCoy massaged the bridge of his nose, trying to stave off what he knew would slowly build to a migraine if he didn't calm the Captain down. "The captain of the star ship Enterprise, the Enterprise's head engineer, and her chief medical officer." 

"Spock's invited too."

McCoy turned irritated eyes on the young annoying man seemingly attempting to garrote himself with his new bolo tie. " **You** don't factor in here! You're an immature, cocky, arrogant- oh gimme that! Before ya strangle yourself. Haven't you ever worn a tie before?"

"Not since I was five and even then, it didn't look like _this_." Jim stood still while the doctor fastened the ridiculous and definitely antiquated leather string tie properly.Then he started pouting. "Do we really have to wear these things? I feel like an-"

" _That_ is exactly what I'm talking about! Immature! One of Starfleet's most distinguished, senior ambassador's invites you to his estate to be part of an intergalactic peace summit and you complain about the fashion? I oughta pump you fulla sedatives and wheel you through the evening. It'd probably hurt your reputation less than you walking in on your own two feet would!"

Jim backed with an uncertain look on his face, rubbing his hands together. "Ya know, Bones? I suddenly love the idea of visiting Texas. One more place I'll never be able to say I haven't been. See ya on the transporter pad!" Within two seconds the captain was slinking through the door and down the hall to safer haunting grounds. Before the doors had time to shut themselves though, his head popped back into sight for one more tentative stab at mirth. "And don't keep us waiting!" Then, poof, the man was gone.

McCoy shook his head in disbelief, then rubbed his eyes. "What am I gonna do with you?" he whispered, to no one in particular. Seeing as no one was there anyway.  
With Jim gone, he finished getting dressed in record time. With his extra minutes he wondered why in God's name the kid always insisted on bugging _him_ the entire time between receipt of an 'invitation', actually arriving to the function, then continue to do so at every available moment through the course of said evening's festivities and, if fate was on the devil's side, Jim occasionally hounded him until every sane member of their rotation was flat on their backs from a hard day of work. On those days, Jim's voice haunted him even in his dreams. Plaguing the poor doctor long into the early hours and doing nothing to lighten his tendency toward morning crabbiness.  
Also, why Jim insisted on weaseling his way into _his_ room to get dressed was a mystery but, the doc figured it had something to do with, 'more time to bug McCoy'.

With one more shake of his head the doctor set off for the transport and, hopefully, an evening of feast and pleasant talk in a setting of pure opulence. Texas style. Hopefully much more agreeable than Rigelian style.

Unfortunately, Jim wasn't the only one being stubborn that day.

"Are ya sure I canno' stay here an' look after the ship while the rest of you handle things with the…peace summit?" It took the engineer a second to remember the term. Not surprising, considering he was the only officer aboard the Enterprise who seemed to enjoy the prospect of an evening spent dining and exchanging very careful conversation with an eclectic collection of alien life forms in some rich Starfleet ambassador's mansion _less_ than Captain Kirk himself. 

"Sorry, Scotty, but if I have to go then so do you. Your name was on the invite, after all." Jim tried his best to simultaneously console the Scotsman and annoy the doctor, sneaking a smug smile when both seemed to work out.

"Quit your whining, both of you!" McCoy chimed in. "Besides, if what I've heard about this ambassador is right; he'll have lots of hard liquor being passed around. Now, don't ask me where, but," he leaned a few degrees closer to the engineer, "I've heard whispers that he pulls out a huge cask of Romulan Ale on special occasions." Scotty's blank look was almost disappointing.  
To be sure his point carried home, the doc added, "Like tonight." One brow raised as if in derision.

The Scotsman's eyes lit up as he cleared his throat and stepped onto the transporter pad. "Ya know, suddenly this ambassador doesn't sound like a bad guy ta have dinner with!"

With a snort from Doctor McCoy, the team was away.

\------------------------------

 

A few hours later, with dinner consumed and no major mishaps directly concerning the very careful crew of the Enterprise, McCoy was chalking this one up as a banquet to remember.

Their host hadn't taken the usual allotment of 'six times longer than anyone would have liked' to say his welcome to his soon-to-be-seated guests. He'd said some nice things about peace and galactic co-existence, unity and cooperation and made at least one joke at his own expense, but before you knew it he was waving in his highly skilled team of servers and sitting down. No muss, no fuss. Just a good, old-fashioned feast. 

The doctor and the captain of the USS Enterprise stood from the opulent banquet table, ready to join with the growing throng heading towards the adjacent diplomatic gathering-and-talking-about-how-much-cooler-my-planet-is-than-your's room.

Jim stopped short, not three feet from the table, and frowned. "Bones, was that meal replicated?"

With a quirked brow, the doc replied, "Jim, the man has an estate half the size of New Jersey-green houses the size of botanical gardens-," He cut himself short, remembering they were supposed to be on their best behavior. "Putting it simply; No, I don't believe it was. Why do you ask?" He prompted, whilst attempting to prod them both towards the exit.

"Uh... We may have a problem then."

McCoy snorted. "What? Don't tell me you've got a problem with eating wild boar! The way Spock looked at it you'd think he was mourning the death of a sacred animal." A snicker or two snuck their way between his jibe at the Vulcan's obvious distaste.

"Nope," said Kirk, unexpectedly hoarse. "Strawberries though; that's a different story."

McCoy's brow drew down. "What on God's green earth are you goin' on about?

"Doctor,"The Vulcan he'd only moments ago been mocking was suddenly right by his side. McCoy jumped, not having heard the first officer's approach. "I believe the captain is entering the beginning stages of anaphylaxis. Perhaps even anaphylactic shock. At least, if the phenomenon is similar between Vulcans and humans."

"Damn it Spock! What are you two yammering about?!" McCoy, forgetting their current formal surroundings, gesticulated forcefully toward their captain. "This man eats strawberries like they're his favorite food; I've seen him eat them whole, jammed, pureed, sliced, even _chocolate dipped_ , all more times than I care to count!" 

Spock gave him the most patient look he could muster, hands clasped behind his back, the several Star Fleet commendations glinting on the breast of his diplomatic-banquet uniform. "Doctor, I would have thought _you_ , of all people, would be aware that replicated food differs slightly in mock up from their organically grown counterparts. For example: Because there are countless individuals who experience allergies to wheat, peanuts, shellfish, etc., those foods are replicated missing certain protein complexes which cause allergic reactions.  
"Strawberries are among those foods, and if I am not mistaken; the shortcake, which was only short minutes ago served as our final course, was of the strawberry variety."

Turning away from Spock, McCoy all but spat his next words at their captain. Though out of worry or exasperation, not even the doctor could tell you. "Jim, are you allergic to strawberries? And I swear to god that you'd better not be pulling a prank on your poor, overworked doctor in the middle of a damned peace summit!"

In response, Jim gripped the back of the ornate chair beside him and coughed. Tugging at his collar with two shaking fingers as his complexion began to redden. He'd already removed his bolo tie.

"The Captain's throat is in the process of closing off his vital air passages. Might I suggest a dose of epinephrine?"

"No you may not, you pointy eared bastard! You want him dead?!" Spock eyes widened, but that was the only sign that the doctor's response was unexpected.  
"This idiot is allergic to or immune to such a wide range of substances that putting something like that in him now would likely do nothing but exacerbate the issue! He'd be just as likely to keel over from an adrenaline induced heart attack as he might have some sort of positive reaction.  
His eyes flicked toward the exit, "Besides that: the imbeciles in security wouldn't let me bring my med kit to dinner. Something about how I could be planning to poison emissaries or stab an Andorian or some cockeyed conspiracy along those lines." Then, eyes locked with Spock's and pointing angrily at the now definitely red faced captain, he added, "What he needs is a few hours in medbay, starting four minutes ago!"

"I agree, Doctor. Although, seeing as we do not yet posses the technology necessary for casual time travel, I suggest we find some way to help the Captain at _this_ time." McCoy looked just about ready to punch him. The stony faced Vulcan continued uninterrupted **only** because McCoy was once again acutely aware that, at such a prestigious peace summit, it simply wouldn't do for two Starfleet officers to act like savages. Especially toward each other. Doubly so because they both worked on the same crew. Otherwise, he'd have less holding him back.  
As it was, he simply grit his teeth and tried to not imagine the Vulcan's head melting under heavy phaser fire as the supercilious officer continued pontificating logic at him."It is not possible to beam a medical team to our current location, nor is it possible to beam us onto the Enterprise, as nearly the entire summit is shielded against transporter travel. Save for a very few designated entry/exit points."

The two of them broke eye contact to take a concerned look at their captain, who was now struggling to breathe through blueing lips. Jim's subsequent hoarse cough prompted the doctor in McCoy to kick into high gear, the small speckling of blood on the captains chin working quite well to convince the doctor that listening to the Vulcan this once just might be a damn good idea.

"I'd forgotten about that. Damn it Spock, I hate to say it but, it looks like an emergency tracheotomy is the only option; give us time to get him back on the Enterprise and into sick bay." The doc's lips curled in a half-formed snarl. "But I don't have my blasted tools!"

"And they are much too far from us - no doubt locked in a security room safe - to be of any help. Excuse me for a moment doctor." Without any further ado, Spock turned on one heel and marched into the crowd of onlookers which McCoy had not noticed were gathering close by. 

"Rubberneckers," he grumbled as he turned to his friend. "Damn Vulcan, walking off for god knows what at a time like this. I knew he was indifferent, but you have to admit; that was cold."

"Bones," Jim squeezed out with a shake of his head.

"What? And don't talk, damn it! I'm going to alert medical. Just hold on, alright? That's an order!"

"Thought…I was the captain."

"Shut up," McCoy warned, flipping open his communicator.

"I have already alerted medical, Doctor. They will be awaiting your arrival and are apprised of all currently known details."

McCoy started and nearly fumbled the communicator. "Spock! You're like a damned cat, sneaking around like that." He paused for a beat. "What is _that_ supposed to be?" He asked, catching sight of the apparent reason for Spock's departure. 

Holding the item up, the Vulcan explained. "The centerpiece of an Alturian ceremonial head dress. This particular piece is never removed once the Alturian has left their planet's field of gravity, in belief that it will keep the wearer safe and pure. It is meticulously crafted so that the razor sharp tip and blade portion never dull." Indicating it with a pointed nod of his head, he added, "This will serve as your scalpel, Doctor. "  
To the look of utter rejection he received from the doctor he urged, "I believe it will have to do."

McCoy took the proffered blade like ornament and gave it a scornful once over. "If this thing nicks Jim's carotid and he bleeds out before we can get him stabilized, I'm blaming you."  
Neither of the two caught the intense worry which flitted across Captain Kirk's blueing face. They were a little preoccupied, what with arguing with each other over whether their form of emergency treatment would keep him alive or kill him sooner than no treatment at all. 

If there had been any doubt in Jim's mind that morning, he was sure of it now; He _really_ didn't like peace summits. Even the food was out to kill him!

"Understood. Though I do not understand how-"

"I also need an operating table," McCoy cut in with justifiable urgency, as another strangled cough reminded him that they didn't have all day.

The Vulcan nodded, walked several feet to the head of the grand table, and proceeded to destroy twenty-five feet worth of fine china and crystal with one jerk of the impeccable white tablecloth. The sound of hundreds of beautiful plates, goblets and vases shattering all at once elicited shrieks from multiple directions.  
If security wasn't already on it's way, it would be soon. Send Starfleet command the bill.

McCoy gawked, eyes bulging out of their sockets ever so slightly. "What on earth? Why in-"

"There is little time, therefore, this is the most logical course of action. I have succeeded in expediting preparations," the first officer explained, as he pulled chairs out and away from their places along the first six feet of either side of the table, very careful not to break any as he tossed each clear of their makeshift surgery room. He must have realized he'd caused enough damage to their host's property as it was.

Without the sturdy chair under one hand, there was nothing supporting Captain Kirk, who's body decided it was inexplicably now that of a young child who'd just spent the last seven and a half minutes staring at the ceiling and imitating a top while downing cups full of liquid sandpaper _and_ had inhaled at least one whole, deflated balloon. 

Spock caught him just before he hit the ground. Jim's attempt at a, "Thanks," more closely resembled what you'd expect to hear from a suffocating fish. If it could speak human.

"On the table- get him on the table. Now!" McCoy was again impressed by the Vulcan. Not only was Spock strong enough to displace hundreds of pounds of opulent dish ware, leftovers and flower arrangements all in one move but, he possessed the capability to make 'now' happen _now_.  
The captain was on the table, choking on his own throat faster than he'd have been able to put himself there if he'd wanted to. Even on a day when he wasn't in danger of resembling a very human tinted Andorian. Spock lingered, hunched over his captain. 

"Spock, I need you to hold him down. Can't have him jerking around while I cut a hole in his swollen throat, so keep him _still_." McCoy tried to move to his place beside his patient but the Vulcan was glued to the spot. "Spock, you're in my-"

"Allow me thirty seconds, Doctor, and you will have something far better," he said, arranging his fingertips along the length of the Captain's face and closing his own eyes.

"Spock, I have to do this now! I can't put it-"

"Twenty-five seconds, Doctor."

"Spock!"

"Leonard, I am putting the Captain into a state of hypnosis. I need twenty more seconds."

"Ugh, fine!" The doctor threw his hands up, mindful not to fling the Alturian ornamental whatsit into the crowd. Didn't need two medical emergencies on his hands. "Damn Vulcan voodoo better be worth the wait," he groused around the twelve second mark.

"I assure you that mysticism plays no part in the Vulcan traditions, Doctor. Nor does your Terran concept of 'voodoo'." Spock allowed a one beat pause, followed by, "Five seconds. Then, you must hurry."

McCoy drew close. The instant Spock pulled back the doctor shoved him away and set straight to work. Not even worrying what might happen if Jim jerked up with the shock of having his neck stabbed with razor hone alien jewelry.

Their luck held. McCoy had never had such a compliant patient in Jim before that moment. As he breached the tracheal wall he mused that it might even be beneficial to have Spock present for any of the Captain's subsequent doctor's visits.  
He wasn't going to _say_ anything about it, but it _was_ a tempting notion.

"Is there need for intubation, Doctor?"

"What?" McCoy was a little preoccupied at the moment. Been a few years since he'd had to fiddle around with jury-rigged tools so excuse him if he couldn't quite hear the Vulcan over the cacophony his heart was beating out.

"Is there need for intubation? The only item at our disposal which could potentially serve that need is… non optimal. At best." He shrugged an arm out towards the ridiculous expanse of a mess he'd made. "The straws which accompanied the 'milkshake' course, I am afraid."

"Spock, at this point we don't know whether he's allergic to that as well. We can't take any more chances than absolutely necessary here!" His voice stayed deceptively calm as his hands worked open a small passage and he felt the first instinctive inspiration filter through it and into his patient's windpipe. The captain was breathing again! 

"The security team has arrived, and I believe they have brought an entire triage team with them. How convenient," Spock said, as he glanced toward the entrance of the hall.

"Spock, get me that stretcher," the otherwise occupied physician demanded, not having to look up from his flitting hands to know that one was on the scene. When was there ever a triage team who didn't travel with stretchers?  
Spock darted off and all but dragged the appropriate couple of emergency responders to the table side.

"Get him on that stretcher and out to the nearest transport enabled space **now**. This man won't hold up for much thumb twiddlin'." McCoy couldn't help but bark, as if the newcomers were solely responsible for the Captain's current, ill-fated condition.  
The stretcher attendants were well trained at least, and took the doc's instructions to heart. Quickly, they transferred Captain Kirk's compromised body from the table and onto their conveyance device. 

McCoy made sure he was never more than three quick steps from the side of the stretcher. Even if the walkway was clogged by voluminous folds of gaseous skin bubbles which a few strange beings were unable to keep out of the convoy's way.  
If Jim was planning on following his normal m.o. it meant nothing good for the doctor. Jim's 'normal' was, after all, an ascription to the mantras; 'Never allow yourself to become predictable', and 'Laugh in the face of very real danger'. Like strawberries. See how that turned out?

"Dr., I will rejoin you at the transport pad," was all the explanation left a frazzled McCoy as the Vulcan took off, in what amounted to a humans' half jog. McCoy watched for but a moment as the Vulcan rejoined the swarm of diplomats which seemed to teem and bulge almost as if sentient itself. 

"Aliens," the country doctor bit out with a bitter shake of his head. Though, whether he was referring to Spock or the summit's other attendees was unclear even in his own head.  
He pushed the thought of Spock's rude departure to the back of his mind and kept pace with the stretcher, focusing instead on the medical tricorder one of the emergency responders was waving around in a fashion which screamed 'inexperience'.  
"Give me that! Before you put out someone's eye," he chastised. _After_ taking the tricorder from the young, surely well meaning, medic who wisely did nothing to protest. Perhaps the youngster had heard some of the rumors ( facts ) concerning the legendary Dr. McCoy's loyalty to the Enterprise's captain and crew. Either way; he knew better than to get between a cantankerous doctor and his blue lipped patient.  
Maybe he should've handed him the tricorder to begin with.

McCoy proceeded to push the young medic completely out his line of sight, inadvertently smooshing him right smack into the folds of an exceptionally large, feminine looking alien's dress robes.  
Before the medic had half a chance to extrapolate himself and apologize for the intrusion, he felt two sets of long sinewy arms embrace him and pull him further in towards the center of the huge sea of fabric.

"Yep. Definitely should have given him the tricorder," were the only words the young man got out before he was effectively smothered by the sheer density of his fabric cage, now fully closing him off from all sights and, alarmingly enough, sounds of the busy and excited banquet hall. The fabric was more effective than the materials put into making your average soundproof room, but even so, he managed to remain calm. Knowing full well that no matter how insulted or angry the alien was with him, this was a peace summit and indeed, only non-hostile members of the Federation of planets had been invited. For the most part.  
His worry was brought to the surface when he felt himself brought to rest against something as tall and solid as a tree - albeit, a relatively thin one - which also happened to be the source of the 'four' arms now lifting him up off the ground and tighter against what must have been a very, very tall alien's body.  
He gained an elevation of about two feet and stopped firmly in place, wondering the while what he had done to deserve this.

Right about the same time as he'd settled on the answer that, 'Life's just not fair,' a plump, squishy, big-as-his-entire-head- set of lips came from seemingly nowhere and kissed him square on his crown. Accompanied by a feeling of abject dread, some drool dribble down the side of his head and smack dab into his ear.  
He only didn't scream because he was absolutely positive that not a soul would have heard him, aside from the one whose company he was long overdue leaving. 

It's lips lifted off his sweat and drool soaked head and the entire behemoth of a creature seemed to turn as if to speak to someone…or something. A small set of clicks and gurgling noises interspersed with the occasional decipherable syllable passed between the two.  
The young medic was nearly certain that the exchange would translate to:

"I'll be keeping this one!" 

"Yeah whatever, Marlene."

Roughly.

To that, he attempted a scream.

Dr. McCoy too was near the screaming point. What with all the clueless foreign ambassadors standing around with absolutely no reason to believe they should be chatting anywhere else but smack dab in the middle of the clearly designated w _alkway_. He was glad that the medic team was somewhat used to the crush of this sort of crowd. Otherwise, he'd be at the front of the procession, elbowing ambassadors in their pudgy faces and telling them to, _'Stay down if ya know what's good for you! They're called emergency exits for a reason!'_  
Needless to say, the med team had more patience than he'd even been able to exercise in the field. They made faster progress than his was method would have brought anyway.

Watching carefully to be certain Jim's breathing continued, he gave himself a second to wonder again where in god's name that pointy eared devil had half-jogged off to, and whether whatever reason he had for doing so was more important than helping ensure his captain's safe transport to sickbay.  
If not, McCoy was gonna kill him.

They made it to the transport pad a grand total of three and a half seconds before a somewhat out of breath Spock did. That he'd caught up to them was not surprising, considering he was but one small Vulcan leaf floating through the obstacle course of bodies and voluminous politicians while the med team was more akin to an elephant attempting to walk through a bamboo forest. Without snapping the stalks.

"Spock, things would've gone a lot smoother with a Vulcan at the lead. Why weren't you-"

"I shall explain later, doctor. Right now, it is the captain I would recommend you devote your attentions to."  
McCoy grumbled indiscernibly and did just that for the remaining five seconds leading to their long awaited beam up. They materialized in the transport room closest the Enterprise's sickbay. His domain.  
Here there were no distractions. Only a well oiled medical staff which was already descending upon them like vultures on a freshly dead hunk of roadkill.  
Hmm… Poor choice of simile perhaps... 

Knowing his place quite well, Spock kept to the rear of the swarming mass of medical staff, keeping pace with the two ensigns armed with identical medical PADDs, no doubt pulling up all relevant medical records on their captain.  
He had a clear enough view of Dr. McCoy and a member of his core staff manually taking pulse, blood pressure and pupil dilation readings whilst yet another PADD armed fledgling recorded them. 

He wasn't sure when they'd found the time, having been moving near full speed from the moment they'd materialized on the transporter pad, but was nonetheless relieved to note that a respirator was attached and currently pumping fresh oxygen directly through the incision in their reckless captain's throat.

"Reckless?" Spock asked himself.  
With sickbay now in sight the first officer realized that there existed an element to this situation which the odd individual might someday - when an appropriate stretch of time had elapsed for such a notion to be accepted in reference to such a traumatic event without reprimand - consider... humorous.  
"The consumption of organically grown strawberries is… reckless." He shock his head. "Fascinating." He didn't notice the uneasy look the two young ensigns still quick-walking right next to him shared, each wondering silently whether the chief science officer was due for a mental health evaluation. 

The entire team managed to squeeze themselves through the medbay doors without missing a beat, rushing to the prepped and waiting ICU dock on the far left.  
Spock stopped at the center of the main aisle, directly in front of the entrance, and watched with rapt attention as tubes were removed and replaced, injections were approved and administered and every light and readout on the biobed display blinked and pinged in abject horror at the state of their captain.  
The Vulcan stayed glued to the spot, knowing full well that any attempt he could make, any apparent gesture of concern or plead to be made of use, would only serve to hinder the team's efforts. One distracted ear could be the difference between James Kirk's survival and… the alternative. Spock would not see himself be the deciding factor. So he watched.

Only once the swarming school of white and blue clad medics' frenetic movements slowed to something more closely resembling a synchronized, long practiced dance did the Chief Science Officer inch closer for a better view.

The oxygen was running smoothly through a tube attached to the impromptu incision, the little buzzers which had previously warned of failing biological functions now sat silent and content. The captain's throat though, was visibly swelled and an angry redness had taken over a large majority of his now bare upper body. Worrying, to say the least, but the medical team appeared optimistic, a few of which were reassigned as their usefulness to the situation dissolved.

Spock, with a reluctance he felt dug its roots in a mire of illogic, turned from the scene, wandered back the way he'd come, stopping in a space that occasionally served as a sort of waiting area, and made himself useful the only way he could: Dictating a Captain's log. He was, after all, the closest thing to an acting captain the Enterprise had at the moment and, besides that, who else would do it?

Far enough from the main concentration of biobeds so as not to disturb any medical staff or recumbent patients, the Vulcan recorded a thorough account of the evening's happenings and… misadventures. Becoming quite engrossed in explaining the necessity of he and Dr. McCoy's rash and - in some instances - seemingly ill-advised actions. Down to his unsanctioned 'borrowing' of a foreign ambassador's sacred ornamental headpiece blade. Not stopping, it seemed, to draw breath until the entire night's worth of information was carefully enumerated for the appropriate parties' reviewing.

The knowledge that one or more of their actions were quite likely to draw criticism or the potential competency hearing played at his Vulcan nerves so much so that he felt the need to close his eyes and collect himself. Just for a moment.  
Upon collection he launched his mind into the new task at hand; planning a strategic defense in the event of charges or allegations being brought against himself or the considerably less logical Dr. McCoy. Whose penchant for emotional outbursts and heavy dependence on a colorful array of - quite frankly, nonsensical - colloquialisms, left himself in a position of impotency when it came to any proceedings which were bound to take place in a court of law.  
Unless someone went into labor, unexpectedly. Though, lending a hand in that situation always had the distinct possibility of landing a doctor in ever more trouble for practicing while under investigation. In a court of law.

Under any circumstances, it seemed the poor country man was likely to require a great deal of help and legal council if he was to survive any kind of punitive actions set in motion by - of all things - saving his captain's life. At a peace summit. From a deadly helping of strawberry shortcake.

"Mr. Spock," The Vulcan whipped around, not an ounce of surprise in his taught expression as he took in first the sight of the core rotation all attending the captain and second, the away from post chief medic. Standing instead, only a handful of feet from the one person in the room not wearing med staff blues. ( Or whites. )  
"Spock, tell me that isn't _your_ blood," McCoy said, wide eyes taking in the sight of a green stained first officer's jacket sleeve.

"Doctor, I do not believe lying to be the wisest course-" He stopped talking when he recognized the disapproval in McCoy's withering stare. Wisely, he instead offered an explanation. "I returned the Alturian's ornamental blade before joining you on the transport pad. Unfortunately, she regained consciousness just as I had finished reattaching the piece and therefore thought that I was, at that time, attempting to remove it. The Alturian code of conduct dictates that in such a circumstance, the wearer-"

"Wait a second!" The frazzled doctor cut in. " _Regained_ consciousness?" Spock looked at him as if he had missed something which was meant to be glaringly obvious. McCoy hated it when he did that.

"Yes doctor, 'regained consciousness'. I had not time to mention, at the time I presented the blade to you to serve as a crude form of scalpel - which, in and of itself, is a deplorably primitive tool - that an Alturian will kill themselves if the blade leaves the crown of their headpiece any time that they find themselves off world." McCoy nodded, feeling as if he was stuck in some sort of ridiculous fantasy novel. "Therefore, the only way to gain the use of the blade - however briefly - was to take and return it without the ambassador's knowledge." McCoy blinked. That _was_ glaringly obvious… wasn't it?  
"I employed the Vulcan nerve pinch technique, setting the ambassador safely in her chair, and undid the rings securing the blade to the headpiece. After you finished with it and the medical entourage was underway, I cleaned, returned and refastened the blade before the ambassador could realize it was ever missing."

"Right. And _how_ , again, did you manage **that**?" McCoy asked, indicating the still growing stain.

"An unfortunate miscalculation. I am pleased that this is all that resulted from her early return to consciousness, as the Alturian code of conduct states that, 'In defense of ones head dress, and consequently ones life, a show of lethal force is acceptable and, indeed, preferable to the alternative.  
'The successful removal of an Alturian's head dress however, while off world, by any being aware or unaware of any and all ramifications will be dealt with as an act of intentional murder. The offender will be tried in a court of the Alturian divine tribunal and, unless evidence is submitted which supports the claim of an Alturian off world suicide - in which case, refer to the 'Alturian Off World Suicide' clause found under the heading of the same title in section 6 - the offender will be flayed and subsequently drawn and quartered." McCoy's face contorted at the barbaric notion.  
'If, on the other hand, the offender refuses to be taken to the Alturian home world to attend trial, the guard in charge of the retrieval process is within their rights to quarter the being in question wherever they happen to be at the time of refusal.' A rather unsavory alternative." 

McCoy nearly gagged. Spock gave him a questioning look and continued when the doctor said nothing about his little throat clearing noise. Sudden bile in the mouth would be a difficult thing to explain to such a level headed Vulcan indeed.

"A rough translation from the original Standard Alturian Legal dialect, which bears close resemblance in structure and roundabout nature to the Terran equivalent." McCoy managed a strained hiccup of a laugh at that. He hated legal papers of any dialect.  
"My 'miscalculation' was in my inattention to detail. In my hast I had forgotten that all Alturain females wear on their dominant hand a ring, twin in both composition and symbolism to their head dresses, who's sole ornamentation is a much smaller, matching holy blade. The ring is optional for the nonbinary minority," Spock added as an aside.  
"She struck out and I failed to evade, though..." The Vulcan inspected the upper part of his sleeve, bringing into sight of the doctor a nasty looking gash which obviously went through to some superficial muscle structure. "She had been aiming for my heart, or rather, where she _assumed_ my heart to be situated. Her assumption was off by several inches, therefore, even if her faculties had been purely unaddled, I would certainly have survived. The ring blade, I suspect, was lacking length enough to fatally puncture an average humanoid heart anyway." 

McCoy wasn't sure what to say to all that. The Vulcan was looking at him rather expectantly but he doubted there was anything effective to be done about that, seeing as Spock either looked at you as if you were the least intelligent creature that had ever clawed it's way up the food chain or with this exact expression.  
In all honesty, there were a few other discernible expressions the first officer displayed from time to time but those two were the only ones which really rated on most people's, 'Will this affect my ability to function smoothly?', scale.

Leading with a sigh, McCoy clapped his hands together and tackled the one thing in that whole mess of crazy which he knew what to do with.  
"Let's have a look at that cut, shall we?"

Mr. Spock twitched an eyebrow and followed with a bewildered, "Quite, Doctor."

"Which biobed would you like?" McCoy asked, one hand outstretched to indicate the row of unoccupied, general purpose beds. 

"I have no preference, arbitrary or otherwise," Spock said, offering no help in that regard.

"Huh. Well, if you're gonna be _that_ way about it I might just leave you in the capable hands of one of my fine assistants."

Spock's head canted as he took one, small step closer to the country doctor. "Are your assistants familiar with the difference in genetic coding present between humans and Vulcans? Without sufficient knowledge and practice, a doctors healing tool has the potential to become something altogether… dangerous."

"Why Spock, is that a tone of worry I detect?" McCoy just barely held back the chuckle threatening to accompany his foolish grin at the sight of that all too familiar Vulcan face set to such a foreign configuration. One bordering on surprise or maybe dismay.

"A human emotion Doctor," the first officer shot back, rather indignant at the perceived insult. "If you are needed elsewhere, I believe myself capable of repairing the damage to my arm unaided. With permission to make use of a few of the medbay's-"

"Thank you for the offer, Mr. Spock," McCoy cut in, " but the only ones who need my attention at this moment are you and that gash you got yourself, playing heroic thief at a _peaceful_ diplomatic summit." His tone rather testy at the thought of having an untrained, _injured_ crew member patching themselves up using **his** medical supplies. Especially when they asked permission with a straight face.

"I merely _borrowed_ the blade, Doctor. There is no need for name calling," Spock retorted as the two of them ambled toward the nearest biobed. 

"No preference my foot! You choose this exact bed every time you're forced to come in here!"

"And with good reason, Doctor. It is the one situated closest to the exit." McCoy's eyes bugged just a little.

"Why you smart-"

"Please Doctor, is that any way to address an injured patient." Mr. Spock sat on the edge of the biobed as McCoy fought hard not to add 'one black eye' to his freshest patient's medical record admission form, figuring that they'd both already seen enough excitement for one day.

Mr. Spock nearly smiled in satisfaction. Not that he didn't _often_ get the last word but, still…  
He settled for quirking a victorious eyebrow. 

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Meanwhile, far below the Enterprise, inside a mansion teeming with what most humans would feel inclined to label as 'alien weirdness', a thing truly worthy of such praise was found by one of the friendly transporter pad safety and health inspectors.  
Reading the sensors as a couple of huge 'he's-not-quite-sure-what-they're-calleds' plodded passed, towards the transport pads, he picked up an errant signal.

Jumping up, he approached the lumbering couple, attempting to identify their race in order to address them properly. "Excuse me, uh… Ambassadors!" Very safe bet that that was indeed their title. Unfortunately, nothing else about them was clear. Covered in the biggest set of robes the safety and health inspector had ever seen and nearly touching the hallway ceiling with what he assumed must have been their cowled heads, they turned around, robes billowing with the movement. The only sign that they were indeed looking at him; two sets of glowing red eyes, visible from within the deep blackness cast by the heavy fabric of their hoods. 

The poor guy fought not to cringe, keeping a strong face so as not to loose what little perceived authority he held.  
He cleared his throat. Of fright. "Ambassadors, I'm afraid you will have to step out of line. Something strange was picked up by the sensors. If you will, this way please."

Gurgling, the two behemoths complied, moving to the side of the ever growing line of ambassadors waiting to beam up to their ships and start the journey back to their respective home planets. Some with enough alcohol in their system as to ensure they would be pleasantly hungover for the entire trip.

Well off to one side, the safety and health inspector began with the well drilled patter, "Alrighty, are either of you currently in possession of anything you did not arrive with this evening?" The two clicked, seemed to look at each other, and moved closer to the small official. ( Relatively small, that is. ) With some difficulty and a goodly amount of help from the good old universal translator, he was able to 'understand' what they were saying.

"It think we steal? The nerve of some humans!"

"Yes, accusing ambassadors of stealing from Texas host? We should sit on it!"

"I don't think that would be aloowed Marlene. Remember last time?"

"Do nothing to remind me! Dreadful send-off!"

"I am sorry, Ambassadors," the safety and health man said with as much 'not scared' as he could muster. "It was not my intention to accuse either of you of anything. Simply to find out why it is that the sensors singled you out. Now, are you quite sure you are only in possession of items which you brought down with you this evening? Nothing from the banquet or the mansion? He looked right into their glowing eyes expectantly. This wasn't the first time he'd had to confront unhappy ambassadors over souvenirs they 'weren't' trying to take with them.

More clicking and this time some less than happy shifting around too."It thinks we are stupid! Contradicting itself!"

"Horrible manners, horrible!"

"I apologize Ambassadors, but I'm afraid that until you can pass the sensors without setting them off you will not be able to leave. That is the safety policy as it applies to everyone in attendance." His voice even and neutral, just in case eager and polite offended these particular beings.

Their glowing red eyes met, "Marlene..."

"No."

"Marlene."

"No!"

"Marlene! I want to go home!"

"And I want what I found to come home with us!"

"That must not be allowed here. We will have to get you a souvineer from the Texas gift shop on our way out of orbit. Maybe a Texas moo cow?" There was a pause as the second one seemed to mull over the compromise.

"We take home a Texas moo cow?"

"Yes."

"Promise?"

"Alright. But only if we leave now."

"Hmph. Alright." The one known as Marlene stooped, becoming several feet shorter, and for a second, looked almost like a tent covered human mother kissing her hidden baby.  
The safety and health man shook his head at the ridiculous thought. After all; there were no children allowed at Starfleet ambassadorial functions. Unless the child happened to _be_ an ambassador, of course.  
Still watching the two, he felt what may have been a thump vibrate the beautifully carpeted floor beneath his feet. Before he could decide whether he'd really felt anything or if that one glass of sherry had been a bad idea after all, the two colossal figures turned and remerged with the throng headed towards the transport pads. Not even bothering to walk through the sensors again.

A low keening whine brought his eyes to floor level. There sat the singular, strangest thing he'd ever seen fall out of someones robes. It was quivering, crying and staining the carpet all while looking for the world to be utterly and completely lost. What made it so strange though, was the fact that this mewling lump just so happened to be a fully grown member of the estate's medical staff. And he was utterly sopping with what appeared to be… drool.

The safety and health officer sighed. "Better call the med team."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 

"Jim, it's only been two days since your little tryst with the strawberry shortcake. As your doctor I _insist_ on at least one more day before you storm the bridge and demand your seat back from Mr. Spock."

"As-" a dry cough, "As if. You know the only things that kept me in your fun dungeon this long were the pretty nurses you sent over."

"Ha! I reckon the drugs they slipped into your system every couple hours helped too!"

"Now _that_ is unfair! And, I'm guessing, _not_ the way the professors back in med school teach you to handle a medbay. There's got to be some sorta regulation against it..." Distractedly, Kirk pulled up some hard reading on the PADD he'd just remembered he was carrying.

"I'll tell ya this for sure: They can teach all the principles and precepts of doctoring and nursing but they don't and _can't_ prepare you for the eighth level of hell kind of a pain you'll face in trying to keep a bull headed captain from killing himself. Through stupidity, of course," he added, not quite sure whether Kirk's face softened or sagged when he realized that that was as close as he was getting to hearing that his friend 'Bones' cared about his well being. Yeah, he already knew that, but it's nice to hear it sometimes.

Given the opportunity, Kirk would have said something scathing in return but it was at that moment that their turbo lift reached the bridge. Bickering with your chief medical officer was not the most respectable thing you could be doing on your official return to the bridge. 

"Captain," greeted the green blooded first officer, rising from the seat of power amid the bustle of a well organized crew. "I trust your recovery has been restful?" Kirk's face twitched, though, it was difficult to say in which direction it was headed.

"You know Spock, out of every crew member aboard this ship, only you are capable of composing a greeting so utterly devoid of any decent, heartfelt emotion." Spock stood utterly still for an entire beat. 

"Captain…" the Vulcan appeared on the verge of an emotional response. He schooled himself to reign it in, but that only went so far. "Captain, I do believe that that is the kindest thing you have ever said to me." Bones' smirk morphed into a face full of shock. The Vulcan couldn't be serious! On the other hand, when was he _not_?

Their captain, with a look of grave acceptance, clapped a reassuring hand to his first officer's shoulder which, to the Vulcan, had early in their acquaintanceship been recognized as a far too physical human gesture with too many meanings to be of any help in deciphering the Captain's mood. It was rarely a sign of displeasure though, therefore it was far more likely that the Captain was simply attempting to use physical contact to reinforce his candid praise.  
At least; that's how Mr. Spock saw it. Dr. McCoy on the other hand, saw his recalcitrant patient attempting to apologize to the utterly hopeless Vulcan without retracting his perceived 'commendation'. The poor Vulcan appeared touched. Genuinely. By an obvious, overt insult. 

Turning away from the sappy, sad reunion and heading to the sanctuary of his medbay, McCoy grumbled his disapproval. Hoping those of the crew with hearing more acute than that of your average human - hrm, Spock, hrm - were too distracted to pay him any mind. "With _those_ two in command of a four hundred personnel starship, who needs power mad villains? The captain and his Vulcan will be the end of us!"

With Bones down the turbo lift and well out of earshot, James T. Kirk let out a sigh composed half of relief and half poorly concealed exhaustion.

"Captain?"

"Oh, nothing Mr. Spock. It's just good to be back," said with a smirk of a smile and a little sympathy for the _still_ overly pleased Vulcan.

"Yes, the bridge has been… calm without your presence, Captain."

Kirk slapped a hand over his heart. "Why Spock, that might just be the kindest thing you've ever said to me!"

An eyebrow raised in concern, the Vulcan supplied, "It was not meant as a compli-"

"Spock, you need to learn to roll with it. Life goes more smoothly when you do. Trust me." 

Kirk's knowing grin serving as quite the perturbing phenomenon, Spock decided it was time to resume his official post on the other side of the bridge. His parting word, spoken with hesitation. "Quite."

The sound of muffled chortling hounded him all the way to his seat. He'd have to check with McCoy later. Perhaps the Captain had suffered some decrease in cognitive functioning from his- No. McCoy was soft and sentimental, but he would never jeopardize the entire ship on the hopes of not squishing the ego and aspirations of one man.  
That would be illogical.

**Author's Note:**

> Who likes allergies? Show of hands? Yeah. Neither does James T. Kirk, captain of the Starship Enterprise. His doctor isn't a fan either.
> 
> As a note: I am not a medical professional, nor have I trained or studied in the medical field. Any of the medical and legal system things that crop up in this story are hobbled together from things that I've read, seen, or heard over the years and have been fact checked to the best of my ability.  
> Hope you enjoyed!  
> 


End file.
